STAGE GUILD PLAYS 



DUST OF THE ROAD 




Mdnograpb 



STAGE GUILD PLAYS 
DUST OF THE ROAD 



DUST OF THE ROAD 



A PLAY IN ONE ACT 

BY 

KENNETH SAWYER GOODMAN 




THE STAGE GUILD 
CHICAGO 



'Y^' 



,01, 



4* 



Copyright, 1912, by 

Kenneth Sawyer Goodman 

All rights reserved. 



Notice. Applications for permission to perform 
this play should be made to The Stage Guild, 
1527 Railway Exchange Building, Chicago; no 
performance of it may take place without con- 
sent of the owners of the acting rights. 






DUST OF THE ROAD 

A Play in One Act 



CHARACTERS: 

Peter Steele. 

Prudence Steele, his wife. 

An Old Man, Prudence's uncle. 

A Tramp. 



The time is about one o'clock of a Christmas morning in the 
early seventies. The place is the living room of a comfortable 
and fairly prosperous Middle Western farmer. At the right 
as you face the stage is a fireplace with a glowing fire in it. 
Beside the fire is a large armchair in which Prudence is sitting. 
At her elbow is a small table with a lighted lamp, having an 
opaque shade of green tin. At the left is a door giving into 
other parts of the house; at the back centre a door giving out- 
side. There is a larger table at left centre near the front of the 
stage. There is also a lighted lamp on this table, but the back 
of the stage is in semi-darkness. Near the outside door is a 
window, the curtains of which are drawn. As the curtain 
risis, the Old Man has just shut and bolted the outside door as if 
shutting some one out. He is only partly dressed and carries a 
lighted candle in his hand. 

PRUDENCE. Well, what did he say? 

OLD MAN. Nothing. He's gone, if that's any comfort 
to you. 

PRUDENCE. It is a comfort to me. I don ' t like folks 
coming to the door at this time of night. 

5 



OLD MAN. You might have stirred yourself to take a look 
at him. He was that cold I could hear his teeth clatter. 

PRUDENCE. What was he like? 

OLD MAN. Youngish, I ' d say, with thin cheeks and a 
yellow beard. But I never seen such old looking eyes as 
he had. 

PRUDENCE. Go to bed, uncle. 

OLD MAN. Both his hands was bandaged. I could see 
the blood on 'em. 

PRUDENCE. Well, what of it.? We can't be feeding 
every beggar that comes to the house. 

OLD MAN. [y// the window^ He ain't turned the willows 
at the bend of the road. I could holler to him yet. 

PRUDENCE. Go back to bed, I tell you, and let me read 
my Bible till Peter comes in. 

OLD MAN. \Go'ing toward the inside door.'] You've set 
me thinking. Prudence Steele. You've set me thinking 
again. 

PRUDENCE. Hush your mouth, and go to bed. 

OLD MAN. Aye, aye, that's it! 'To them that hath shall 
be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away 
even that which he hath. ' If folks only knows enough to 
keep their mouths shut. 

PRUDENCE. Now, you're blaspheming again. 

OLD MAN. Maybe I be. But if I was to open my mouth 
now and tell what I can remember clear as day, wouldn't 
I be serving the Lord.? Answer me that. 

PRUDENCE. Nobody 'd believe you. 

OLD MAN. I ain't asking 'em to. If you and Peter can 
disremember what happened in this room, it ain't for me 
to turn against my own kin. 

6 



PRUDENCE. Nothing happened in this room. 

OLD MAN. Maybe I never seen thirty one-hundred dollar 
bills counted out on this table. 

PRUDENCE. Go to bed. 

OLD MAN. I'm going — I 'm going, but it would do me 
good to see them that ' s proud pulled down and her that 
would n' t spare a crust for a lame beggar on Christmas 
Eve, losing a piece of money like that as a judgment. It 
would be as fine a judgment as ever I see in that there 
book of yours. 

[The old man goes out chuckling. Prudence follows 
him to the door, closes it, listens a moment, then blows 
out the lamp on the larger table and returns to the chair 
by the fire. She turns the pages of the book and then 
lays it face down on her knee and puts her hand over her 
eyes. The whole stage is now nearly dark, the only light 
coming from the lamp on the small table and from the 
fire in the grate. The Tramp opens the outside door 
and steps into the room. Prudence stirs a little and the 
book drops from her lap, rousing her. She sits up and 
listens. The Tramp closes the door and shoots the bolt.\ 

PRUDENCE. You ' re powerful late getting in. 

TRAMP. Aye, maybe I am. \_He rattles the door to see ij 
it is fast. '\ 

PRUDENCE. Hush your noise with the bolt, can't you! 
You'll be having Uncle down here again. 

TRAMP. I '11 take my chance of that! 

PRUDENCE. What's the matter with your voice.? 

TRAMP. It's the river fog sticking in my throat. 

PRUDENCE. \_Rising.~\ Come here and let me look at 
you. I never heard you speak with that voice before. 

7 



TRAMP {^Stepping into the light. '\ I dare say you never 
did! 

PRUDENCE. God save us! I thought you were my hus- 
band! 

TRAMP. I gathered as much from your friendly greeting. 
\_He comes a ste^ neQrer.^ 

PRUDENCE. Stand off or I'll scream! What do you 
want? Who are you? 

TRAMP. What's the need of your knowing? 

PRUDENCE. Tell me what you want and get out of my 
house. You need n't grin at me. I'm not afraid of you! 

TRAMP. You 're a bold woman! 

PRUDENCE. I have cause to be, with a husband leaving 
me lonesome half the nights of the year, and beggars 
prowling the dark like rats. 

TRAMP. You've a brave tongue in your head, and a kind 
voice, like a chilly wind on a tin church steeple. You'll 
ask me to sit by your fire next and offer me a sup of 
something hot. 

PRUDENCE. I'll point you the door you came in by, and 
set the dog to your coat-tails. 

TRAMP. Fine hospitality for the beginning of Christmas 
Day. 

PRUDENCE. Who are you ? 

TRAMP. Dust of the road, my dear, like any other 
man. Dust with a spark of fire in it. 

PRUDENCE. You' re a tramp, by the looks of you — or 
worse. 

TRAMP. A tramp is it? That's what you'd call a gay 
fellow tramping the hills for the clean joy of sun and airj 
keen snow in winter and the voice of the birds in the 

8 



warm season. It ' s what you ' d call the lifeless wretches, 
skulking from doorstep to doorstep for the leavings of 
other folk' s tables. I ' m neither the one sort nor the other, 
but the name fits me well enough. 

PRUDENCE. Whatever you call yourself, you've got no 
business in a decent person's house at the middle of the 
night. 

TRAMP. {Taking a pipe from his pocket and filling /V.] Is 
your husband like to be home soon? 

PRUDENCE. You '11 hear him at the door any minute now. 
If you ' re thinking of robbery you ' d better be quick about 
it. There ' s little enough to take. 

TRAMP. \_Lighting his pipe and seating himself on the edge of 
the larger table. ~\ You can keep your hand off that trinket 
at your neck and make your mind easy about the spoons. 
I ' m a disreputable character, a prowler in the night, a be- 
trayer of friendship ; I ' ve none of what you ' d call common 
decency; I'd as leave eat your bread and kiss your hand 
and do you a dirty turn afterward as not, but — well — I ' ve 
a different whim. I ' m not here to make you trouble. 

PRUDENCE. Fine ideas you've got! What '11 my hus- 
band say when he smells the smoke of your pipe? 

TRAMP. You'll have no call to lie, my dear, though 
you've a quick enough wit! I'm waiting to see him 
myself when he comes in. 

PRUDENCE. Like as not he ' 11 break your head for your 
pains. 

TRAMP. Aye, like as not. 

PRUDENCE. You ' ve got gall to be sitting there swinging 
your feet. 

TRAMP. I'm thinking what I'll say to you in the mean- 
time. 

PRUDENCE. You won'tbe doing much thinking when he 's 
pounded you till the teeth ache in your jaws, 

9 



TRAMP. [/« a cold sharp voice and speaking very slowly.^ 
Why did you send that other beggar away just now, Pru- 
dence Steele? 

PRUDENCE. So you loiow my name, do you? 

TRAMP. Yes! It's a cruel sounding name, Prudence 
Steele, and you've a cruel way of speaking and of look- 
ing at a poor man, my dear! 

PRUDENCE. You're a fine hand at a compliment, Mister 
Tramp. 

TRAMP. Why did you send him away? 

PRUDENCE. Send who away? 

TRAMP. The lame man with the bandages on his hands 
and feet. 

PRUDENCE. What 's that to you? 

TRAMP. I was standing in the road. I saw him knock 
at your door. I saw it open a little. I saw it close again. 
I saw him go away — just as I've seen him go from thous- 
ands of other doors. 

PRUDENCE. He must be a friend of yours. 

TRAMP. No. He was one once. Now he ' s a creditor. 

PRUDENCE. By the looks of it, he ' 11 have a hard time 
getting his money. 

TRAMP. Money's easy to find, — sometimes too easy. 
Now if you'd care to feel in my pockets — \_He jingles coins 
in his pockets. ] 

PRUDENCE. Well, pay him then, and keep him from 
pestering other folks. 

TRAMP. One isn't always minded to pay one's debts. 
And sometimes it's not so easy as you 'd think. Only one 
day of the year I walk the same road with him. I follow 
him with the money in my hand. I met him at your gate 

lo 



just now and offered it. He turned aside his face. Would 
you like to see the coins? \_Holding out his hand with 
coins ^ You must. Thirty pieces of silver coined in the 
Roman mint at Jerusalem. 

\]Faint blue light now illumines the face of the Tramp 
and becomes brighter as the scene goes o«.] 

PRUDENCE. \Fascinated, looking at the money ^ You fright- 
en me. What are those stains? 

TRAMP. Blood, my dear! It's blood money. 

PRUDENCE. Whose blood? 

TRAMP. The man's who knocked at your door. 

PRUDENCE. What did he want? 

TRAMP. He came to give — not to ask. 

PRUDENCE. What beggar would be going about the 
country giving something away? 

TRAMP. Yes, Prudence Steele, what beggar would be 
doing that? It's a riddle for you to read. 

PRUDENCE. And I suppose now, you've got something 
to give me! 

TRAMP. Yes, something you won't be likely to take. 

PRUDENCE. Huh! Advice, I suppose. That's the 
cheapest thing I know. 

TRAMP. Sit down. [Prudence sits down.l Where the 
man with the wounded hands knocks once, he knocks 
again. Wherever he ' s turned away, I find the door un- 
latched. But open the door to him, and I stand in the 
road outside, — I'm glad! Oh, I'm a person of strange 
contradictions — like any other man. You don't under- 
stand me. 

PRUDENCE. No. 

II 



TRAMP, No matter! When he knocks again, let him 
come in. 

PRUDENCE. What do you mean? 

TRAMP. Let him come in, I tell you, and save the joy 
of life in your heart. 

{There is a stamping outside and the door is shaken. '\ 

PETER. [Outside.^ Hi! Open the door! Prudence, 
I say! Wake up and open the door! 

PRUDENCE. {Starting and passing her hands across her eyes.^ 
It ' s Peter. It ' s my husband. 

TRAMP. Open the door for him! 

{Prudence runs to the door and opens it. Peter enters 
and she clings to him, half hysterical. The Tramp re- 
mains seated on the larger table, but the light fades 
from his face.'] 

PRUDENCE. Peter — oh, Peter, Peter! 

PETER. What's biting you.? Let go my arm^ woman! 
Are you trying to claw the coat off me? 

PRUDENCE. Send him away ! Send him away ! Send 
him away ! 

PETER. Take your hands off me. 

PRUDENCE, Send him away! 

PETER. Send who away? 

PRUDENCE, That man ! That man over there ! I'm afraid 
of him! 

PETER What man? 

PRUDENCE. He came in without knocking. I thought it 
was you ! He ' s terrible — he ' s crazy ! Look at his eyes ! 
Send him away! 

12 



PETER. Go on! Don't be a fool! There's nobody 
here! 

PRUDENCE. Over there ! He was standing by the table. 
The table over there. . . . He's gone! 

{They both move across the room, hut the Tra?np has 
disappear'ed in the darkness. J 

PETER. You ' ve been asleep ! You ' ve had a nightmare. 
You've been w^orrying again. You'd no call to sit up 
waiting for me. There's been nobody here. 

PRUDENCE. I could have taken my solemn oath! . . . 

PETER. \Rjoughly.'\ You'll take no oaths except them I 
tell you to. Go to bed! 

PRUDENCE. Where 've you been? 

PETER. Up to the church. I stayed to a vestry meeting. 
I v/alked home slow. 

PRUDENCE. You ' vc decided what we ' re going to do ? 

PETER. Go to bed and let me think. I'll tell you in the 
morning. 

\JPrudence moves toward the inside door. Peter calls 
her back.'\ 

PETER. Look here! You'll keep your mouth shut? 
You'll stick to that? 

PRUDENCE. Yes. {She makes a move as if she were coming 
back to say something. '\ 

PETER. Get out of here and let me alone. {He sits down 
in the chair by the fire and puts his face in his hands. Pru- 
dence goes out. The Tramp reappears. ~\ 

TRAMP. Well, Peter Steele, is it easy to think of perjury 
and theft on Christmas morning? 

PETER. God ! Who ' s talking to me ! 

13 



TRAMP. A greater rogue than yourself. 

PETER. {^Rising. ! I see you now, confound you ! Where 
were you hiding when I came in? 

TRAMP. No matter! 

PETER. So, my wife wasn't dreaming, eh! 

TRAMP. No more than you are. 

PETER. You frightened her, eh ! I ' 11 make short work 
of you. \_He begins rolling up his sleeves. "[ 

TRAMP. I only gave her a little advice. 

PETER. Damn you ! I ' 11 give you something else ! \_He 
moves toward the tramp. '\ 

TRAMP. \_Coolly.'\ Sit down! 

PETER. Get out of here, with your advice! Get out, I 
tell you, before I kick you out. 

TRAMP. \_AIore harshly but without moving.^ Sit down. 

PETER. You can't frighten me with your talk. I'm an 
honest man, I tell you. 

TRAMP. So was I once. 

PETER. What have you got to do with me, damn you? 

TRAMP. ' For there is nothing covered that shall not be 
revealed, neither hid that shall not be known. ' 

PETER. {_lVith a sigh of relief .'\ Oh, I see now. You're 
only a traveling preacher. 

TRAMP. No, but I've travelled much and worn the cloth 
in my time. 

PETER. I ' m dashed if I see what you ' re driving at ! 

TRAMP. You will presently. 

PETER. I won't listen to you. 

H 



TRAMP. You know what's coming. 

PETER. How should I know what's coming? I'll — I'll — 

TRAMP. You'll listen, Peter Steele, because I'm going 
to tell you something about yourself and you'll know it for 
the truth. 

PETER. If — if some one sent you here to pump me, you'd 
better be off, or I '11 have the law on you both. 

TRAMP. You had a friend, Peter Steele, and you loved 
him. He 'd often left his affairs in your hands. You 'd 
served him honestly and he trusted you. 

PETER. And why wouldn't anybody trust me? I've 
been an honest man, I tell you. 

TRAMP. He came to you in this room. It was the 
spring the war began. He had enlisted a company. 
Before he left he brought you money, money to keep for 
his boy. 

PETER. It 's a lie ! I tell you, it 's a damned lie ! What 
right 's the boy got to think his father gave me money to 
keep for him? He ain't got a receipt, has he? It ain't 
shown in the accounts, is it? 

TRAMP. No, Peter Steele, the boy can't show a receipt 
and the entry ' s not to be found in the accounts. 

PETER. By what token do you think a man would be fool 
enough to leave money lying around loose like that? 

TRAMP. By the token that he trusted you. 

PETER. I never had it ! I tell you I never had it ! What 
do you know about it? 

TRAMP. The drums were beating in the road. Your 
friend was in his captain's uniform. His sword lay on 
the table by the door ; his cloak over the back of that 
chair. You sat here. He stood across the table from 
you. Your wife sat where you're sitting nowj her uncle 
over there by the window. 

15 



PETER. Who told you all that? What tricks are you 
trying to play on me? 

TRAMP. Your friend laid the money on this table : 
thirty one-hundred dollar bills. He said to you, Peter, 
I want to leave this money with you. In case I don't 
come back, I'd rather my boy didn't count on anything 
at all when he makes his start. I ' ve fixed things safe for 
him till he can earn his keep. This is something extra, 
a nest egg for him, when he's twenty-one." Then he 
shook you by the hand. As he went down the path, the 
drums stopped beating, and when the room was still again 
you heard the voice of the money! 

PETER. God, how did you know that? 

TRAMP. Oh, you meant to keep faith, Peter Steele, but 
you never entered the three thousand dollars in your ac- 
counts. Well, he never came back. You read his 
name in the lists. It set you thinking about the boy and 
the money. Years went by. The boy began to work 
and earn his keep. You watched him grow up and 
wondered if he guessed. Last week, you remembered 
that your debt fell due on the day after Christmas. Then 
you sat down to figure interest. You ' d used the money 
well and you tried a just rate. The total startled you. 
Then you tried three per cent ; still too much ! Then 
you sat quiet and the money whispered to you. Why give 
me up at all? No one can prove you ever had me." 

PETER. And they can't prove it! My wife and her 
uncle can swear they never saw it paid. 

TRAMP. Certainly. 

PETER. The boy can't show a receipt. 

TRAMP. None! 

PETER. No. I don't know who told you all this, but 
if you're trying to blackmail me, there's the door, and be 
damned! 

i6 



TRAMP. I '11 not trouble you again, whatever decision you 
come to. 

PETER. Then, what in hell did you come here for? 
Answer me that! 

TRAMP. To advise you to give the boy his money of your 
own free will. 

PETER. Ha! Ha! Anything else? 

TRAMP. No. 

PETER. Who in the devil are you, stranger? 

TRAMP. Come closer! 

PETER. I can see you well enough from here. 

TRAMP. Come here and look at me. Have you ever 
seen me before? 

PETER. No, thank Heaven ! I never have, 

TRAMP. Look in my eyes. 

\_Peter moves toward him as if dazed.'] 

PETER. They ' re like the eyes of a cat ! There ' s fire in 
'em! 

TRAMP. Flame from a sunset under Calvary. Look at 
my throat ! 

PETER. \_Shrinking away.] I've seen marks like that on 
a man. ... 

TRAMP. I hanged myself to a dead tree on a stony hill- 
side. Listen ! 

\_He jingles the money in his pocket.] 

PETER. It ' s the sound of money ! 

TRAMP. Thirty pieces of silver, coined in the Roman 
mint at Jerusalem; the price of my soul, that's walked the 
evil edges of the world, for nineteen centuries, 

»7 



PETER. In God' s name, tell me who you are ! 

TRAMP. The one being that knows best the priceless 
value of the thing you're so ready to sell, — Judas of 
Kerioth. 

[_He advances toward Peter, who sinks into the chair by 
the fire, cowering away from him.'\ 

PETER. Let me alone, I say ! Let me alone ! 

TRAMP. You'd been an honest man, Peter Steele, and 
the sun had warmed you and the birds piped to you when 
you ploughed the fields. You'd looked against the faces of 
red hills when dawn was new, and strained your eyes 
across blue valleys at the close of day. And men spoke 
you fair in the roads and children turned to you as you 
passed, till a little while ago. What came over you that 
you ' d put the joy of living in pawn for thirty pieces of 



money 



PETER. Let me be ! I ' ve become a hard man ; and 
money's a big thing in the world. What's the piping of 
birds to me. Leave me alone and let me sell my soul M 
I like ! It 's mine to sell ! 

TRAMP. Aye! It's yours to sell. To sell over and 
over, if you like. There ' s money to be got for it, more than 
the first price you take, and pride, and ease of body, and 
fear of men ! But it is n' t only your soul you sell, Peter 
Steele, and nothing you get will compare with that which 
goes out of you when the first payment clinks in your 
hand. 

PETER. Let me be ! Let me be ! 

TRAMP. You'll miss the joy of small things crying in the 
grass, and the pleasant sadness that comes of watching the 
fall of yellow leaves. You'll take no comfort in the 
sound of a woman' s singing, or the laughing of a child, or 
the crackling of a fire in the grate. 

PETER. I was never a hand at noticing such things. 

i8 



TRAMP. No, but an honest man shares all the common 
gifts of God. He feels arid is grateful without knowing 
how or why. He seldom knows the joy of it all, till he 's 
lost the power of feeling. 

PETER. Let me be. 

TRAMP. You '11 walk the sunshiny roads and have only 
the dust of them in your throat. You ' 11 see little lakes 
lying in the bosom of the hills, like purple wine in cups 
of green jade, and have only the pain of -daylight in your 
eyes. You '11 lie down to sleep with the crystal stars blink- 
ing at you, and have only the empty blackness of night in 
your heart. I know how it will be with you, Peter 
Steele. 

PETER. What do you want me to do? 

TRAMP, Give up the money of your own free will. 

PETER. What interest have you got in seeing me go 
straight.? Whose work are you doing.? 

TRAMP. \_S/o'wfy.'} It 's one thing to die in a splendid 
agony and save the world. It 's another to drag the 
weight of a name like mine from century to century; to live 
on and on, and suffer every pain of death; to save a man 
here and a man there only to balance my own long ac- 
count — to die — to be forgotten. 

PETER. To balance your long account? 

TRAMP. Turn you from the thing you 're about to do, 
and I toss a grain of dust into the scales. There 's a 
heavy weight to be balanced, Peter Steele, and it 's only 
one day of the year I 'm free to search. 

PETER. Let me be. 

TRAMP. Would you rob me, too? 

PETER. \_Piitttng his hands to his head.'\ Let me think, 
I tell you! Let me think! 

19 



[The inside door opens, and Prudence enters dressed in a 
wrapper and carrying a small lamp. As the light il- 
lumines that side of the room, the glow fades on the 
Tramp' s face and he disappears. Peter sits with his 
head in his hands, just as Prudence left him.~[ 

PRUDENCE. Peter, Peter, are you asleep? 

PETER. \_Starting.'\ Eh? No. 

PRUDENCE. Why have n't you come to bed? It 's near 
daylight. 

PETER. I've been thinking. Prudence, — I've been 
thinking. 

PRUDENCE. About — about ? 

PETER. Say it! I 've been thinking of perjury and theft 
on Christmas morning. I 've been thinking of selling my 
"soul for thirty pieces of money. \_He rises. '\ But, thank 
God, I have n't sold it yet. 

PRUDENCE. \_Going to him.'\ Oh, Peter! Peter! 

PETER. The boy will get his money on the nail. I 'm 
an honest man, Prue. I 'm an honest man, I tell you! 

PRUDENCE. Oh, Peter, I'm glad, I'm glad! 

PETER. Every penny he '11 get and interest. Fair inter- 
est ! 

PRUDENCE. It 's a great deal of money, but I 'm glad ! 

PETER. Little enough to give for keeping the joy of living 
in your heart on Christmas Day. 

PRUDENCE. I want to tell you something. I could n't 
sleep either. Oh, Peter, I could n't sleep. 

PETER. You 've been thinking of it, too. 

PRUDENCE. Not about the money. There was a lame 
man here just before you came in. I sent him away. It 

20 



worries me, Peter. I'm sorry I didn't let him in. 
Uncle saw him. He 'd been hurt. His feet and hands 
were bandaged. I thought — I thought perhaps ... I 
feel as if he'd stopped somewhere near the house. 

PETER. Which way did he go? 

PRUDENCE. Toward the willows at the bend of the road. 

PETERf \Reachingfor his hat and coat.'\ Like as not he 'd 
try to shelter himself there. [He moves towards the outside 
door.^ 

PRUDENCE. Where are you going? 

PETER. To find him and fetch him back. We can't 
let him freeze. 

[_They go together to the outside door and open it. It is 
morning outside. ] 

PETER. It 's morning already. 

PRUDENCE. Did you ever see such a dawn on the snow? 

PETER. Never in my life. \He kisses her and goes out.^ 

PRUDENCE. \_Calling after him.'\ I '11 have the coffee on 
the stove. 

CURTAIN. 



Plays and Masques published hy 
The Stage Guild, 

Edited hy Wallace Rice. ' 

THE DAIMIO'S HEAD AND OTHERS; by 
Thomas Wood Stevens and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman. 
Contents: TheDaimio's Head, A Masque of Old Japan ; 
The Masque of Montezuma; Quetzal's Bowl. Cloth, 
^i.oo net. 

THE MASQUE OF MONTEZUMA, in paper, 25 

cents. 

RYLAND, A Comedy in One Act, by Thomas Wood 
Stevens and Kenneth Sawyer Goodman; in paper 25 
cents. 

THE CHAPLET OF PAN, a Poetic Masque, by 
Wallace Rice and Thomas Wood Stevens. Originally 
produced by Donald Robertson. In paper, 35 cents. 

A PAGEANT FOR INDEPENDENCE DAY, by 
Kenneth Sawyer Goodman and Thomas Wood Stevens. 
A dramatic community pageant in celebration of the 
Fourth of July, written for and originally produced under 
the auspices of. The Chicago Sane Fourth Association. 
In paper, 35 cents. 

DUST OF THE ROAD, a Play in One Act, by 
Kenneth Sawyer Goodman; in paper, 25 cents. 

The Stage Guilds Chicago 
i^2y Railway Exchange Building 



SEP 16 1913 



^Er^""^ OF CONGRESS 

mmimm 

0J)15 973 749 4 



